Edge of the Abyss
by Elle Austen
Summary: Based on the Out of the Abyss campaign. Drow ranger, Sarith Zekarit rises to power in the home of Matron Narcissa Hallen, finding intrigue, danger, and excitement at every turn. From his discovery by the matron mother to his eventual madness at the hands of Zuggtmoy, the Demon Queen of Fungi, this story tells the tale of love and deception in Menzoberranzan.


_Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you._

 _\- Frederick Neitzsche_

* * *

In silent unison, the first scout and family ranger padded forward through a long, empty cavern. They followed the stoney floor, as fleeting traces of past footfall were illuminated by their infrared eyes. The round tunnel in which they walked stood nearly twenty feet in diameter. If their calculations were correct, which they would be, this tunnel should be intersected up head by an identical one that marked the continuation of their path.

The first scout glanced over his shoulder at the party behind him. Side by side, great hairy goblinoids hauled heavy stone basins containing the large, faintly glowing, and delicate prize of this mission - purple worm eggs. These unremarkable orbs marked the purpose of a long and dangerous journey. Beyond the bugbears - slaves of the family - trailed a small army of fellow scouts, all fleet and light of foot. Their quick eyes darted through the tunnel, ahead and behind, forever alert to the dangers that lie in their unforgiving homeland.

Above the scout rode those of which he dare not lay his eyes. As silent as the grave, they moved, leaving behind little trace of ever having passed through these tunnels. This was the way of the drow. As a male, he knew his station, and dared not look upon those he was unworthy of seeing. Yet, his trained ears pricked to the sound of a flutter of one of their capes and without thought, he glanced skyward.

Clinging to the ceiling were two giant cave lizards. Their padded feet made for the perfect transportation, able to move over the walls and ceilings of these empty caves. What made them more valuable to drow riders was their heat signature - so faint and erratic that to track one of these beasts you would need to be a highly trained scout, which the first scout, indeed, was.

It did not take more than a moment of the first scout's eyes being raised to these lizards, and more so the two women who rode upon their backs, that he found the bite of a whip slither around his throat. He gasped as a chilling venom flooded his system, tensed his muscle, and scarred his flesh.

Dropping between the first scout and the bugbears who hauled the families cache was the smaller of the two lizards. Its rider was a young woman with long, ashen hair braided into a perfect pleat around her square shoulders. Her smokey grey skin was the color of charred wood. Her eyes, usually green but glowing red in the black Underdark, glittered with joy as they watched the heat rise and flood through the wound she had befallen upon the first scout.

She wore a fluttering black cape, bearing no insignia but woven with fine silver threads like spider's web. It draped over her broad shoulders, which were squared regally to fall another blow on the drow elf crumbled at her mount's feet. In her hand the weapon writhed. The whip bore a wrapped leather handle with a silver spider pendant dangling from the wrist loop, but the thong was no leather strip. Seemingly growing from the hilt of the weapon was a single slithering snake - green, with black diamonds and red eyes - eagerly awaiting another go at the scout's throat with bared fangs.

"That'll be enough, Nizana." A gentle voice spoke from above.

The first scout focused on the stone floor. Though the whip would certainly leave a nasty scar, the sensation of the venom had faded. He directed his eyes towards his hands, and did not rise in the presence of that voice.

"A male must learn his place, matron mother." Nizana's voice slithered and hissed. Her weapon was her child and she was its master.

"And a scout must always remain alert to danger in the Underdark. Pin down your cloak or I'll remove it and use it to silence you!" The gentle voice rose with anger but her tone remained even.

Though the first scout feared to look up into that face, he knew it was glowing with white-hot hatred. It belonged to the Matron Narcissa, matron mother of House Hallen. She was a powerful and beautiful woman, well known for her chaotic personality.

In response to the threat, the young drow, Nizana, curled her thin lips into a fine line, unrecognizable as a mouth. Her eyes glowed fiercely, nostrils flaring, and her hand tightened around the handle of her whip. In one solid motion, she replaced the weapon at its rightful place on her hip and pinned her cloak to her trousers. She then turned her head upwards, where her mother still rode leisurely atop her lizard. Nizana's expression feigned love for the house mother.

Hearing a faint sound from around the corridor, the first scout's ears twitched again. Footfall. He turned away from the women who served as his masters. Both beautiful and wicked, controlling and all-powerful drow elves - Matron Narcissa of the House Hallen and her second youngest daughter, cleric Nizana Hallen. He turned his attention to the family's ranger, who had also heard the sound in the darkness. All of the scouts had. Without fear the ranger raised his eyes to the matron and spoke.

"My lady, Matron Narcissa. Footfall up ahead. Please remain where you are." The family ranger was an old drow, nearing his sixth century of life, but a strong male nonetheless. His voice was firm and smooth, and he spoke with the authority that accompanied his title.

The matron thought about the ranger's plea for a moment. Despite her maternal title, the matron mother of House Hallen was quite young. Her elven hearing as keen as any male scout.

"Sennim," She addressed the ranger. "Take Nizana with you. The eggs shall be guarded by six of our finest scouts and the rest shall join you, with me behind them. We have nothing to fear of footfall in the dark."

She was right, of course. The drow elves matched only the strange and powerful Illithid for reign of these frightful caverns. All else who they may encounter would surely become slaves or fall in offense of the drow elves' power.

Listening intently to the convesation between her mother and the ranger, Nizana prickled at the idea of following behind these males for another step, but she grew maliciously delighted at the thought that she could make use of her growing power. As many noble-born daughters of the houses of Menzoberranzan, Nizana was well on her way to becoming a high priestess, and was constantly itching for opportunities to make use of battle spells. From the small, black leather pouch she wore around her neck, she removed a glass spider with ruby eyes, and held it tightly in her palm. Quietly, she ushered her mount forward, as scouts appeared at her side, bows raised and ready for battle. She tutted at the scouts, held her square jaw high, and imagined they were not there.

—

As the party moved forward through the tunnels, the first scout took lead of the pack. He was the first to spy the source of the sound. To redeem himself, he pushed through the blinding flash of light that invaded his line of sight. Steadying his eyes, he made out the forms in the darkness.

Three figures, taller than drow elves but similar in build, stood at the center of a great crossroad of tunnels. In the hands of one of them was a lit torch, causing the affliction which sent the drow elves' infravision into a distracting dance of flames. Though they wore tattered rags, their hair had been cropped, and only the center figure held something resembling a weapon, the first scout was able to surmise what they were. His heart erupted with hatred. Blood pulsing to his head and his bow hand.

"Faeries." He whispered, almost inaudibly.

Nizana too could see them. As a cleric she had grown used to the unnatural flicker of candlelight. A wicked smile crept across her lean, menacing face and her hand gripped the glass spider so tightly that even she feared for a moment that it would be crushed.

Nizana turned to her mother and purred,

"Surface elves. How shall we kill them?" The pleasure in her voice leeched out with the word 'kill'.

The Matron Narcissa suddenly found herself excited at the prospect. She imagined that this dull trip would turn into something pleasurable indeed. Ushering herself forward through the scouts and dismounting her lizard, she leaned around the corner and strained her eyes beyond the torchlight to the three figures, lost in the Underdark. Her pulse quickened as she studied them.

Hatred between races of all types was not uncommon, but that between those of the drow and the surface-dwelling elves was unmatched. From the moment a drow child comes of age to learn of hatred, they are taught to despise their Sylvan brethren, and despise they do. In all of the material plane, there was no greater enemy for most. Most, of course, as some drow followed their own paths.

Matron Narcissa was one of such dark elves. She licked her thin lips and read every influx of heat and chill that emanated from the three escaped slaves. She learned them, deeply and honestly, for as long as she could before she felt that they may slip between her fingers.

In the fair nature of her lithe form, the drow mother raised her hands to her ranger and the group of scouts behind her. With dexterous movements she began to sign to the party, a common from of silent communication for the drow that is taught and understood at a very young age. Her warm blood left behind traces of light in the coolness of the caverns, and the scouts could read her signature as if the words had been written in the air.

"Sennim," She signaled. The ranger stood on guard with longbow raised. "Through the heart of the one with the torch."

Sennim did not hesitate, nor did he need to adjust his shot. He was as skilled as any scout in the great drow capital of Menzoberranzan, and he had magic on his side. The arrow flickered with green light as it loosened from his bowstring. Black, aerodynamic feathers zipped through the windless cavern without feign or falter, and struck torch-bearing elf through the heart, dropping him to the floor. The other elves leap back from their slain brother! The tallest elf, who stood in the center, held his weapon above his heart and eyes.

As the torchlight faded away, the drow could now see these elves in a full spectrum of color. Their skin was a creamy white, pulled taunt over their worn bodies. Their eyes were a vibrant green, flecked with gold, but listless from hunger and fear. Most distinguishably was their hair. Though it was cropped short, it shone so brilliantly silver that it could have been blue - the very tint of the light of the moon.

The Matron Narcissa tilted her head as an excellent thought flooding her brain. She had begun to conceive a plan from the moment her daughter had alerted her to the elves in the darkness, and now it all seemed too pleasurable to pass up. By now, the matron and her party had revealed their point of advantage to the elves. There was no need for silent speech.

"Scouts," She commanded. "Release arrows."

"Mother!" Nizana squealed in disbelief, her desire to use magic to eliminate the faeries overwhelming her good judgement.

In an instant the matron had gripped her daughter by the hair. She wrenched her head backwards so forcefully that it brought tears to the young cleric's eyes! Nizana was then compelled to look up into the white-hot face of her mother, flushed with anger.

"You will refer to me now as always by my Matron title!" The drow spat, her voice rising with each syllable. She then changed her expression, from violent anger to gentle care. Releasing her daughter's hair she leaned downward and planted a light, thin-lipped kiss on Nizana's forehead.

When the brief confrontation had ended, the two dark elves returned their gaze to the battlefield. They were both surprised, if a drow could be surprised, to see the center elf still standing. Though his makeshift weapon - a broken staff which appeared to have a resin-coated eye at its tip - was filled with arrows, the elf was not. They watched as his chest rose and fell with each frightened breath. The first scout watched this as well. His bow was already strung with a second arrow, and like that of the rangers, it was perfectly poised to sink into the faerie's heart.

Delighted by the results of her experiment, the matron mother pressed forward. No scout dared to stop her. They only stepped out of her path as they had been trained to do.

Though this moon elf was starving, tired, and worked to the quick, his traditional elven beauty had not failed him. His long legs stood ready to carry him into battle. His lean face only aided to exemplify the high cheeks and long nose so common to his race. Most noticeably amongst these dark elves, this creature of the light stood even a foot taller than the tallest of the women.

"Teu-tel-quessir," The Matron Narcissa addressed the moon elf by the race's native name. "Will you not use your magic to flee?"

The moon elf did not answer. He simply raised his staff in the direction of Matron Narcissa. It was a threatening gesture, and even though the surface elves did not know much about the way of the drow, this elf could gather that this may have been the action to cost him his life.

"Oh come now." The matron cooed. "What an unfriendly start we got off to. If only you had damped that torchlight, I would have been able to see what an admirable member of your race you are."

The moon elf swallowed a dry mouth.

A droplet of sweat formed on the first scout's hairline, but still he held his arrow stiff and ready.

"I will not flee." When the moon elf spoke, his voice was mellifluous. the tone was deep and masculine, but as light as the wind. It burned the ears of the drow, but delighted the matron.

"And I will not slay you." The matron mother retorted.

She turned to her party. Raising a long, delicate arm, cloaked in a robe of the finest back silk, she gestured to the first scout and continued,

"Though my first scout may."

The first scout had done this on many occasions. Readily he lowered his bow, quivered his arrow, and stepped forward with his hand on the hilt of his short sword. His head remained lowered to the Matron Narcissa but his red eyes locked onto the glittering green orbs of the moon elf. His heart pumped blood, black with hatred, so loudly that it rang behind his ears. He had been waiting his whole life - over four centuries - to kill a faerie in melee.

Without hesitation, the first scout slowed his breathing and drew his sword. The blade was thin and of elven make, engraved with a spider's web. The tip of the sword, like all drow blades, was dipped in a poison designed to send the recipient of an unexpected slash into an eternal slumber. The first scout felt exceedingly confident.

As quickly as it was announced, the battle began. The scout moved in with a series of low assaults. The sharpened edge of the shortsword clanging agains the metal staff wielded by the moon elf. Attack after attack he drew the elf closer to the walls of the cavern. Crouching low, the first scout expertly stabbed his short sword upwards to break the elf's defense.

His movements were practiced and expert. The first scout had fought in battle countless times in his long life. Though, focused on the staff, he failed to account for the elf's size. Just then, an unclothed foot came down on the drow's back, shoving him to the ground. The drow ached, but his infravision could sense the moon elf's every movement a moment before it happened. As the butt of the staff came down to smash his skull he rolled out of the way and leapt to his feet.

The first scout took a fleeting moment to look over his shoulder. Though the Matron Narcissa showed no outward signs of any emotion, he was certain of her pleasure at his success. As the staff swung once again over his head, he ducked, raising to his feet and slashing at the moon elf's wrists, only to have his blow parried.

Sweat was beginning to run down the forehead of the scout and sting his eyes. He had to fight through it. Circling around the defensive elf, he pointed the blade of his short sword at the elf's face.

"Time to die, faerie." He murmured under his breath.

Shifting his weight to his back leg he dove in, ready to knick the elf behind the knees and end this battle. When suddenly, mid-air, a blinding light flashed in the corner of his eye! It was not so bright, but it was enough to break the scout's concentration in that crucial movement.

The moon elf's hands, still glowing with white light from the innately cast spell, strangled the end of the staff as he brought it down with full strength on the drow. The crack of the metal staff against the scout's head echoed through the caverns. Nizana, excited by the unfolding event, was forced to stifle a gasp.

As he hit the cavern floor, the first scout felt a searing pain on the back of his head, matched only by the ache of his surely broken cheek. A cold metal bar pressed against the nape of his neck. He expected to feel the anger radiating off of the Matron Narcissa, but no such sensation came, only the pain in his head and the chill of the stone.

"You fought well, first scout." The gentle voice of the matron called. "Let him rise, teu-tel-quessir."

The metal bar lifted off of the scout's neck and he craned his aching body upward. He dared not look in the matron's eyes despite her soft tone. Instead he looked at her hands, glowing with a radiant white light.

The matron approached the drow. Gently, she pressed her palm against the back of his wounded head. As a magical weave radiated from her hand, it slithered around the drow's wounds, stitching and cleaning and closing them.

The first scout breathed in a welcome sigh of relief - before his neck was snapped - and his life was cast away into the darkness.

—

The Matron Narcissa wrung her hands together. She dared not wipe them on her robe, so she simply flicked them towards the ground, ridding them of sweat and traces of the disgraceful drow's blood. She looked upward into the glittering, green eyes of the victor and let a playful smile cross over her thin lips.

Her beauty was unparalleled. Even the moon elf was aware of such a fact. Still, his face showed all of the signs of caution and distrust. He knew all too well of the dangers of the Underdark. He knew that even the most delicate of faces hid the horrible truth - that this world they all inhabited, this mysterious womb of the earth - was where all of the darkest natures of humanoid morals were enacted without fear - with desire even - and that he would soon play his part again.

It was at this moment of recognition that two red eyes illuminated the pair from amongst the scouts. Matron Narcissa removed her gaze from the moon elf and turned into the crowd. She scoffed, a male who dare to look at her without permission?

Turning on her heels, the matron mother quickly realized that she was not the only one to notice such indiscretion. Nizana had moved behind a young scout, who was watching the body of the defeated drow slump against the floor in a bloodied heap. The young scout appeared to be fascinated, as if he were trying to glean something from what he had just seen. As Nizana raised her snake-whip above her head, ready to crack it down on the back of the scout, Matron Narcissa held out her hand.

"No, Nizana." Her words were stern and stopped the young cleric mid-swing. The snakehead hissed and spat with the desire to bite.

"Young scout. Step forth. Raise your eyes to me."

From the half-circle which surrounded the matron and the moon elf, a single drow elf stepped forward. He could feel the presence of the snake-whip at his back and the matron's eyes on his face. Though he hesitated at first, he raised his head.

The Matron Narcissa examined the elf. He had only just become a man. Not much older than when Narcissa herself had become Matron Mother of House Hallen. His jaw was strong and square, as were his shoulders, at which his silken sheet of ashen hair hung freely and unkempt. He stood taller and more muscular than other males, and almost boastfully before the matron, though subordinate still. A male drow always knows his station.

"How long have you been with us, scout?" the matron inquired.

"Five years, Matron Narcissa." the scout spoke in a low, even tone.

"Ah," The matron mother thought back on the last five years, a mere minute in the lives of elves but somehow it seemed a whole world away. "You must have been my past patron's final pick."

"Yes, matron. I held the sixteenth position in archery at Melee-Magthere but fourth in swordsmanship."

The Matron scoffed.

"I am certain that your qualifications met my late husband's standards, but I do not care about Melee-Magthere. Tell me scout, in five years what have you learned of my House?"

"House Hallen is the fifteenth house of Menzoberranzan, ruled by Matron Narcissa, the youngest of the Matron Mothers."

The drow scout shifted his weight from one black leather boot to the other, choosing his next words carefully.

"She wrested the position after the tragic death of Matron Nathwae and soon gave birth to her first daughter, Haeliarra, high wizard of Menzoberranzan and Master of Sorcere. I know that Matron Narcissa is in good favor with the Spider Queen, Lolth. I know that she is the most talented alchemist in all of Menzoberranzan. And I know that the line of House Hallen's mastery of the arcane arts is legendary. House Hallen in the fifteenth house of Menzoberranzan…"

The drow broke off for a moment. A small, half-smile crept over the his lips. He felt confident, as many young men do, and continued.

"But under the rule of Matron Narcissa, that will surely change." He concluded.

At the end of his speech, the Matron was elated, though her stoic expression showed no sign of joy. It was a feeling that would dissolve within the moment.

"What is your name, scout?" She inquired.

"I am Sarith Zekarit. Trained fighter of the school of Melee-Magthere. Scout and sworn protector of the Matron Narcissa and her family."

"How very honorable of you." The word 'honor' was a curse on the matron's lips.

Sarith felt himself falter under her words. He suddenly felt very small in the presence of such a powerful female and lowered his gaze. Honor was not a favorable quality for the drow, and the fact that he possessed any ounce of it was a weakness he should have learned by this point to never share, especially not in the face of someone who was so close to the Goddess Lolth.

"I did not tell you to lower your gaze, Sarith Zekarit, sworn protector of the House Hallen!" The matron hissed. "I told you that I do not care about your training as a fighter. You seem to have learned very much about me in your time with my family. Do you know what I care about?"

Sarith raised his head again and met the gaze of the matron mother. The scene was tense and exotic. Four red eyes glowing in the eternal blackness of the Underdark.

"Do you know what I care about, Sarith Zekarit?" the matron repeated.

To have a question repeated to you from a matron mother should carry a death sentence for a drow commoner.

Silently, Sarith mouthed an incantation. It was one innate to all drow elves. His infravision scanned the matron mother, watching each feminine curve glow with heat and hunger.

He allowed himself to pause for a moment, to read the expression on the face of the moon elf. Fear and excitement. Sarith had felt that before at the hand of a high priestess, on his graduation day from the Academy. He let his spell turn into a silent prayer for the surface brother. Death awaits us all.

Releasing his gaze, Sarith filled a corner of the cavern with a deep, impenetrable darkness.

"Clever boy." The matron cooed. "There is hope for you yet."

The matron slid long, delicate fingers around the wrist of the moon elf, causing Nizana to push past Sarith in a flurry.

"Matron Mother, you already defy the laws of Menzoberranzan by traveling to the Wormwrythings, and yet I understand that no drow mage could collect such specimens as you and thus it is necessary, but I can not comprehend what you are about to do." Nizana's tone trembled beneath her words, filled with despair brought on by the actions that would soon unfold.

"Oh Nizana, my beautiful daughter." the matron said cooly.

Releasing the moon elf, Matron Narcissa approached the young cleric. She reached out her palm and stroked it against her daughter's cheek. She let it rest on the girl's shoulder for a moment, then released the whip from Nizana's belt. The snake slithered lovingly around the arm of the matron mother.

"Someday you will become a High Priestess of Lolth, for your mind and will are strong like my own. But, you are more like your late father than you know." She returned the whip to her daughter's side. "I can see your heart, Nizana. And like his, it is cold. It is dead." The moments of tension between her final words sent shivers down the spines of all of the elves.

As the matron pressed delicate fingertips against her chest, Nizana felt a rush of fear. Her blood froze like ice and she gasped in a single breath. Her eyes widened and her muscled tensed, before all returned to normal.

That would be that. Without another word the Matron Narcissa led the moon elf into the darkness.

Sarith and the scouts turned away, staring off into the emptiness of the caves, and Nizana soon followed. They closed their ears to the sounds of the Matron's union, and they did not question when the matron mother reemerged - robes still open and revealing bare breasts ebbing with liquid heat - and spoke in her gentle, menacing tone.

"Scouts, release arrows."


End file.
